Yesterday, when the temperatures here reached a nearly balmy and spring-like 60 degrees, I told my kids they could finally go to Dairy Queen after dinner. This is an annual rite of passage in our town. DQ usually opens mid-March, but I refuse to go there that early. If I am going to eat ice cream outside, I'm not going to be wearing my winter coat and gloves.

When my sons were through discussing what type of ice cream they would each get—oreo blizzard for one, chocolate vanilla twist with sprinkles for the other—they asked me what I'd be having.

"I'm not getting any ice cream tonight," I said.

"Why not, Mom?" Tommy asked, stunned at the possibility.

"Because Mommy's pants are feeling a little tight lately," I explained.

"Well then why don't you just go buy yourself some bigger pants?"